The Donnie Pfaster Series: Desecrated
Classification: S, A
Archive: Yes! Please let me know where.
Disclaimer: 20th Century Fox, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Chris
Carter own the characters within. No infringement is intended.
Summary: “I’m still cowering in that closet, Mulder. Still grasping
for objects in the dark.”
Author’s Notes: Extra special thanks to Mimic for being an incredible
beta and steering me in the right direction. I’d never be able to do
this without you! And for Jay, thank you for all the helpful
I was run off the road, pulled from my car while still disoriented and
shoved into the trunk of his car. Another trunk.
It was only the beginning.
Donnie Pfaster’s face loomed above me in the starkness of the
bathroom, menacing in its blank indifference. The cloying sweetness of
the bubble bath lingered lingered in the frigid air.
I knew from the recent autopsy the water would be even colder.
The image flickered – suddenly the steak knife was inching closer and
closer. The light glinted off the blade as I cowered in the corner of
the closet. My inability to fight back made me insane, almost
claustrophobic in my bindings.
But then he was removing them, freeing me. The sound of the pantyhose
around my ankles being cut away was like sandpaper on wood, loudly
amplified in my ears as the serrated blade scratched over the fabric.
Each little pop of the nylon giving way was like a gunshot in my
highly sensitive state.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said.
It was outrageous that he thought I should be calm for him, should be
happy to cater to his fetishes. To contribute.
“Is your hair normal or dry?”
I found myself running down the hall, fumbling in the darkness for a
doorknob. I finally found a closet, much smaller than my original
prison, and hid in it like a frightened child.
A sing-song voice taunted me. “There’s no way out, girly girl,”
This is it, I thought. I focused on my breathing, willing it to slow
and quiet. My lips moved in silent prayer.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.Blessed art thou
amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary,
Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
I wanted to die in grace.
The footsteps came closer. Suddenly, the door swung open, admitting
light into my sanctuary. I had no way of fighting back, all the
defense skills I’d learned, useless with my hands so tightly bound.
We tumbled down the stairs together. He was beneath me, above me, and
then his meaty hands wrapped around my throat, choked in a vice-like
grip. My eyes were open but unseeing; my world suddenly stars swimming
in the darkness of hypoxia.
He loosened his hold.
His intense gaze frightened me as his body pressed into mine, his
erection shoved ruthlessly into my belly. It sickened me.
“You’re mine, girly girl.”
I awake, nightshirt sticking to my sweaty skin and the motel sheets
tangled around my legs and lower body. Still writhing atop the stiff
mattress, I’d dreamt of a monster, of a man possessed of a level of
putrid humanity I never wanted to know existed. I’m somewhere in that
place between waking and sleeping, a strangled cry wrenching itself
pathetically from my throat as if something heavy is lying on my
chest, preventing the sound from coming forth.
I suck in a shallow, painful breath.
Merciful release is granted to my terrorized soul and the scream pours
out of me in mighty, cleansing liberation.
The sudden sound of the connecting door swinging open startles me,
bringing me upright in my bed. Mulder enters the room, wild-eyed and
quickly seeks me out in the darkness. I’m paralyzed, both by my dream
and by the force that has stolen my voice away from me, a horrifyingly
cruel phenomenon that occurs often following nightmares of that man.
He finds me and rushes to my side, pulling me into his chest and
strokes my hair. These nightmares of mine terrify him as much as me.
He feels it almost as potently as I.
It’s been three years since the attack and Donnie Pfaster’s hold on my
subconscious is still so powerful, the nightmares so frighteningly
real it’s like living the experience over and over again. They play
out in glorious Technicolor, the details so true. They have texture,
substance; not disjointed, as dreams tend to be, but perfectly lucid.
In reality, I had gained the upper hand in the situation, if only for
a moment. My subconscious will not allow me that, however. I am
overpowered every time as I sleep.
“Shhh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Mulder soothes. I grasp the
fabric of his t-shirt, sobbing into it. I can feel the pressure slowly
building in my head, promising a migraine.
After a few moments, I straighten, letting go of Mulder’s shirt and
try to regain some semblance of composure.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, embarrassed. I look down so he can’t see
my face. He lifts my chin with his finger, gently forcing me to look
“Don’t apologize,” he tells me, then pulls me tighter in his strong
I melt into his arms, grateful for the unconditional support he
offers, willing the images of my nightmare to go away. But I’m still
able to smell the scent I’ll forever associate with Donnie Pfaster.
“Apples,” I mumble against my fist, which still clutches a handful of
“What?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment, summoning up the
courage to explain.
“I’ll smell the apples forever, Mulder. The bath Pfaster ran me, while
I was still tied up in his mother’s bathroom. It was filled with apple
scented bubble bath.”
“Jesus,” he whispers, one arm now around my back, the other behind my
head, pulling me tightly against his chest. I never told him I was
still having the nightmares. As far as he knew, they’d subsided a long
I go on. “I left it out of my report, because it was such an
unimportant detail.” Yet, for some reason the scent of apples never
fails to bring it all back. Certainly not an unimportant detail to me.
I’m shivering in remembrance.
The bathroom, as with the rest of the house, had been ice cold. I
watched as he ran his hand through the foamy mass of bubbles floating
on the water. Cold water. Although there was no precedent, I knew from
my autopsy of his last victim, a so-called “working girl,” that he’d
begun to immerse his victims in cold water, impeding the decaying
I remember thinking about how cold it would be – crises usually create
nothing but calm, rational and detached thoughts for me. I calculated
the probable temperature, the shock my body would go through – once he
successfully got me into the tub.
Because I wasn’t going in without one hell of a fight. The gag in my
mouth, the binding of my wrists – all of this was inconsequential. I
was determined to fight with every ounce of my being.
“Is your hair normal, or dry?”
I’ll hear that question until my dying day, asked so innocently, like
a girlfriend trading beauty secrets. The son of a bitch wanted to be
sure my hair was soft and shiny for his little collection.
By the grace of God, I managed to break free. That can of Tub & Tile
was the best stroke of luck I could’ve hoped for, although it proved
useless in the long run.
I’d fought him hard, refusing to become another trophy. I even fought
him as we took our tumble down the stairs.
It all could’ve ended badly. I was quickly losing ground, running out
of energy despite the surge of adrenaline pumping furiously through my
veins. And he was so strong. There is virtually no competing with the
astounding strength of the insane.
It was almost over for me. Pfaster straddled my body, knees on the
floor in a sitting position as I prayed for a miracle. Then, Mulder
broke in with half the Minneapolis PD and saved me from that monster.
I close my eyes against the images. Sighing deeply, I open them and
look at Mulder.
“I’m staying with you,” he says firmly.
I have not the strength, nor the desire to argue against it.
He pulls back to look at me. This is the Scully no one else has ever
seen, a vulnerable and small Scully, shrinking in fear. The Scully
I’ve so vehemently protected myself from becoming for so many years.
“I should have asked for the death penalty, Mulder. At least maybe I
could get some peace.”
His eyes narrowed. “No, Scully. You wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Maybe he’s right. As a Catholic, I couldn’t have condoned such a
thing. Although, I now think I should’ve made an exception in this
case. Mulder, however, has always made it clear that he would’ve loved
nothing more than to personally witness Donnie Pfaster being injected
with potassium chloride.
It hardly matters now anyway. The state of Minnesota has since banned
I look into his tranquil eyes, drawing strength from them. “Thank you,
Mulder. I appreciate your being here.”
“I never considered it an option. If you need me, I’m here for you,
“It’s just,” I pause, blowing out a frustrated breath, “I hold the
memories at bay, try to distance myself from them. I can remain
detached. But when I’m asleep… I’m still cowering in that closet,
Mulder. Still grasping for objects in the dark. And in my dreams, I’m
completely helpless to fight back. There is no rescue.”
He pulls the twisted blanket around our entwined, upright bodies,
still holding me. “He’s in a maximum security facility in Illinois.
He’s going to rot there.”
“I know,” I reply in an unconvinced voice. I press my ear against his
chest, needing to hear his heartbeat, feeling the sudden impulse and
taking comfort in it.
“It was so close, Mulder. So close.” I hate the broken, fragile
quality of my voice. Damn that bastard for reducing me to this!
I look up at Mulder. His eyes are shut, the pain in his expression
obvious. I love this man. For all his shortcomings, he is a decent and
honest human being. He feels more strongly and more passionately, more
purely than any other person I’ve ever known.
Without even thinking, without daring to, I reach up to his lowered
face and place a chaste, tentative kiss on his lips. He returns the
kiss gently, pressing his forehead against mine afterward. We sit
here, connected in soul and hold each other in silence.
“I’ll never let anything happen to you, Scully,” he promises, his
voice taking on a dark edge, giving potency to the words.
“I know,” I whisper and touch my lips to his again.
“Never,” he insists against my lips, pulling me into a deeper kiss.
The warmth of his mouth chases away the cold that lingers. He tastes
The kiss intensifies, still gentle, but more urgent. I grab hold of
the back of his neck and deepen my explorations, savoring the
perfection of it.
His hands reach up to cup my face gently, reverently as his tongue
dances in my mouth. Never breaking contact, he untangles our limbs
and slips an arm beneath me, raising me above the bed to readjust the
position of our bodies before lowering me gently to the mattress.
Sweet, tender kisses sprinkle my face and throat. I close my eyes and
tilt my head back, giving him better access to my sensitive neck. The
butterflies in my stomach will not be quieted. But I am not afraid.
Far from it.
His tongue flicks out to lick the flesh of my neck and, oh, God is it
incredible! Too long, just too damn long since I’ve had a man’s mouth
take hold of that spot just above the jugular. It’s sending sparks of
pleasure down my spine and into my belly as I twine my fingers through
his hair and my back arches in response.
I hear my voice, though very far away, whimpering when he backs off. I
realize after a moment that he’s taking great care unbuttoning my
night shirt, slowly popping each button from its mooring.
The chilly air hits my exposed breasts, puckering my nipples up into
tight peaks, which he bends to suckle delicately. The change in
temperature from the crisp air to the heat of his mouth feels
We don’t dare speak, choosing instead to allow our bodies to
communicate for us.
His tongue flicks at each tender nipple while his hand wanders down
between my thighs, cupping the mound of my sex through the saturated
cotton panties I wear. He rubs his hand rhythmically over it and I
gasp and buck against his hand, tingles shooting forcefully through my
Pulling my dampened panties to the side he grazes a finger over my
swollen clit, teasing me with feather-light caresses, driving me mad.
He continues his cruel assault with his thumb and slips his fingers
inside me, all the while watching my every action, studying me. It is
only now that he releases my aching nipple from his mouth and the cold
air rushes over it again. The shock of the sudden change in sensations
shoots down into my stomach.
He pulls his fingers out, ignoring my whimpers of protest, and eases
the irritating scrap of fabric over my hips and down my legs.
The focused look in his eyes is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my
life – and he’s focused on *me*.
He kisses a hot, wet trail down the length of my overheated body, each
contact making my skin jump involuntarily. He skips over the place I
want his luscious lips the most, instead settling on the sensitive
flesh of my inner thigh and I’m shaking with wanton desire, whimpering
shamelessly for him to give me what I need.
His lips graze up the length of my thigh and burrow lightly into my
curls, tickling me and making me gasp loudly. Oh, God! I have to have
him between my thighs – now. I can’t stand another minute of this.
“Please! Oh, God, please, Mulderrr!” I beg. I don’t give a damn how I
sound, just as long as he gets that mouth down there. Jesus, I’ve
never wanted anything more in my life.
He finally gives me what I crave so desperately, burying his face into
my cleft and flicking his tongue ever-so-slightly over my aching bud.
The wonders his tongue is doing to me – bringing me closer and closer
to the edge before deliberately changing rhythm, lapping at me then
thrusting it into me, alternately – it’s powerful and dizzying and
intoxicating all at once and I’m not sure I can handle it all. I
grasp the sheets of the bed with both hands, desperately clinging to
anything solid and popping them from their corners as wave after wave
pummels me mercilessly, always promising, but never granting me
release. It’s torture, and I’m loving every damned second of it.
One long, skillful finger joins another inside me, thrusting as his
tongue flicks sideways against my clit in a painful sort of pleasure.
Please, oh, please – GOD, let me go. Let me have it. I can’t stand the
violent whirlwind he’s putting me through and my poor body is
convulsing, trying so frantically to hang on to the tremors that are
jerked back from me as soon as I’m about to come. It’s killing me.
My mouth suddenly drops open in a silent scream and my back arches
high off the bed as the soul-ripping release overcomes me, crumpling
and bending me.
Mulder slides up my sweaty, naked body and plucks at the lock of hair
that sticks to my forehead.
I want more. I need him to feel the same way I do – treasured and
Wrapping a leg around his waist, I pull down and urge him onward.
Thankfully, he understands. I really don’t think I have the strength
to spell it out for him. He slips his beautiful erection out of his
I spread my legs to grant him better access and lick my lips. He moans
above me and bends to lay a sweet, loving kiss on my lips, then slowly
pushes his way inside me. I feel full, completed, loved as he stares
into my eyes. They tell me all I need to know. They always have.
The pace he sets is gentle, tender. Most men would already be pumping
into me like mad. But not Mulder. He’s doing this for me, not for his
Each thrust is a tiny, new shock that I feel radiating upward, driving
me closer and closer to a second orgasm – something I’ve never
experienced with another man in this position. Trust Mulder to be my
My legs turned to a quivering mass of jelly as I shake and convulse
forcefully around his twitching shaft. He collapses on top of me, as
sated and sweaty as I was.
Neither of us have the desire to move as we lie there in the darkness,
bodies entangled and our pulses slowing together.
No vows were exchanged, no proclamations of love. And yet, we both
know. The nightmares won’t magically disappear, but with Mulder, I can
face them with newfound strength.
We’ll chase them away, together.